Stephenie Meyer: The REAL Story
We all know the story of Twilight, but what about Stephenie Meyer - the genius behind it all? What's her story? And what of Poncho, her husband?
1. Chapter 1: Stuck.
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I tapped my nails against the computer table, desperately trying to push away the writer’s block that had inevitably set in. I tried and tried as hard as I could, but nothing came to mind. Midnight Sun would have to go unfinished for yet another day.
In my chair, I spun around and stood. Slowly I walked aimlessly about the room, searching for at least a fiber of inspiration. I lightly stroked the petals of one of the red roses in a vase on the coffee table, and then the ivory keys of the piano. I trailed my hand across the ebony top, through a fine layer of dust that had begun to develop in his absence.
I sighed heavily as I made my way up the stairs, running my hand along the banister. The house was so quiet with them gone that it was eerie, almost uncomfortable. The silence was loud – if that makes any sense – and pressed in on me like claustrophobia.
Just to fill the silent void, I placed a disk in the CD player in our room. It was one of my favorites, picked specifically to calm me. The notes wavered in the air around me, filling the room and shoving the once oppressive silence out the door. I stretched out on the bed, feeling completely relaxed and enveloped in the familiar music that blanketed me with its soft, lulling notes.
Hours passed, and the disk played over and over again as I sank into the soft blankets and fluffy pillows. I would have fallen asleep if I could have – but seeing as it wasn’t at all possible in my present state, this was about as close as I would get. My thoughts ceased as they were replaced by only the music, and my breathing slowed to an even pace.
The sound of cars pulling up in the driveway didn’t even register in my mind until I heard the front door down stairs open and close. Heck, that didn’t even register in my mind until the bedroom door opened and my husband entered the room.
I sat upright in a flash, and then bounded across the room to throw my arms around him. He smiled my favorite smile – that crooked grin that revealed just enough of his perfectly white teeth – and returned the embrace. I stretched up and kissed him, and closed my eyes as he kissed back.
“I missed you, Poncho,” I said with a giggle. He pretended to scowl – he didn’t like the nickname I’d given him. It was on one of our first dates, and we were walking home and all of the sudden it was pouring down rain. We ducked into a Rite Aide, and he bought us the first thing he could find – ponchos.
“Missed you too, honey,” he replied, leaning down again and kissing me once more.
“So, how was the trip?” I asked in an uninterested tone.
“It was fine. Just the usual – same old, same old.”
There was a silence as we sat side by side on the sofa. I lounged against him comfortably, and he absentmindedly stroked my hair in that comforting way that he always did. The door opened abruptly, and our daughter ran in, squealing and waving her hands frantically.
“Mommy, Daddy – look! Auntie painted my nails all pretty!” He brandished her pink painted nails for us, and we gave appropriate ooh’s and ah’s.
“Careful, honey – don’t mess up your nails!” Her Auntie called down the hallway. She immediately calmed, holding her hands gingerly and blowing softly on the pink polish. “Come back in here so I can do your toes!” She finished, and our little red haired angel rushed out of the room and I could hear her feet as she padded down the hallway.
Poncho gave a small little chuckle and wrapped his arm tighter around me, pulling me closer to his side. I smiled and closed my eyes, leaning further back into him.
“She’s such a little ball of sunshine,” he noted warmly. “Always amused by the smallest of things, but smarter than any child twice her age.”
“Well of course she’s smart,” I acknowledged, “her daddy is a genius.” I tilted my head up to look at him, and he gazed down at me and smirked.
“And so is her mother,” he added. I grimaced as he kissed the top of my head.
A few minutes passed in silence before I groaned and said, “I’m thirsty.”
“You should have come with us today,” he chided, looking down at me.
“Yeah…but I really thought I might get more of the book done,” I replied sadly.
“I got about two sentences before my mind went blank.”
“Don’t worry, you’ll think of something,” he said confidently.
I grumbled in reply, wondering if maybe this brick wall of writers block wasn’t permanent after all.
“Maybe you could help me?” I asked, craning my neck up to look at him.
“What part are you at?”
“The meadow,” I answered simply. His face lit up in reply.
“That’s my favorite part,” he said softly, pausing.
“Come on – I’ll show you what I’ve got so far,” I said, grabbing his hand and pulling him up from the sofa. He followed me down the stairs, and we drifted over to the computer.
His eyes quickly scanned the text on the screen, reading what I had written. He tapped his chin thoughtfully, and made a small tsking sound between his teeth.
“Well, you could start by saying how wonderful it felt to be there with you. The sun on my face and the grass on my back. And you there with me.” He leaned down and kissed me on the cheek. I typed and typed, exaggerating just a little bit and losing myself in the over-descriptive adjectives and metaphors.
“Edward, Bella,” Alice called from the top of the stairs. “I give you the new and improved Renesmee!” Our daughter stomped proudly down the stairs, with her aunt Alice following. She wore a ridiculously large hat with a huge feather sticking out from the top, and a fuzzy pink boa wrapped around her neck. At the foot of the stairs, she turned and posed for us and we could see her too-big purple heels.
“Beautiful!” I exclaimed, grinning. Behind me, Poncho laughed and smiled.My name is Bella Cullen, and I am the author of the Twilight saga, under the pseudonym Stephenie Meyer.